Ravi 002 - Blog Posts

★

ruqaiyah did not reply at once, though her silence was anything but demure. instead, she blinked—once, slowly—and tilted her head the way one might when presented with a painting one could not yet decide was genius or simply grotesque. he stood there, now in gold, his silhouette haloed in the buttery candlelight, and for the first time this evening, she allowed herself to consider him properly. not just ravi, the boy who once stained her favourite sandals by kicking mud into the lilies, but prince ravi—taller than memory, and with that particular manner of standing that suggested he knew exactly how to command a room. even barefoot. even smug.

"lady ru is never early. everyone else is merely late."

she nodded, eventually, just once, a gesture so small it could have been missed were one not watching her the way he was. that flicker in his eye—was it amusement? something fonder? ruqaiyah wasn’t sure. she didn’t like being unsure. she preferred certainty. absolutes. like the perfect shade of pink for her lips, or the fact that no man who arrived without fanfare could be considered properly on time. “that sundial is skewed,” she said mildly, stepping through the doorway as he held it open, her lehenga whispering across the polished stone floor. “besides, a man should prepare for the unexpected. if you are ready only at the appointed hour, then you are already late.”

she glanced back over her shoulder as she passed him, pausing just by the chair. she didn’t sit. not yet. she waited, lips curled ever so slightly as she looked at him from beneath thick lashes. would he remember his manners? would he understand that power, real power, often lay in the smallest of courtesies? he did. when he pulled the chair open, she gave a satisfied hum and lowered herself onto it with grace that could curdle queens. she propped her chin on her hand and looked up at him. “you should always wear gold,” she said with mild approval, letting her eyes linger a little longer than necessary. “it reminds people you’re important. even if you forget it yourself.”

then, as if moved by nothing more than a passing breeze, she added, “by the way… someone said something rather strange about you the other day.” her tone remained light, idle even, but her eyes sharpened, subtly, like a blade hidden in satin. she let the sentence hang between them for a moment, watching him through lowered lashes. “quite strange, really. almost… intriguing.” she patted the table, a smile crossing over her glowy features, a hint of shimmer reflecting upon as the sun rays hit her face. she found it important, to ensure not only her outfit, but her face shimmered too.

her finger idly traced the rim of her goblet. “but perhaps i shouldn’t repeat it,” she mused. “you know how people are—always whispering, always inventing. and yet…” she trailed off with a shrug, elegant and unbothered, “...every rumour starts somewhere.” she wasn’t sure if there was truth to it—whatever it was. the rumour had been half-formed, little more than a sliver of gossip overheard through silkscreen partitions and perfume-drenched courtyards. she didn’t even care what it meant, really. what mattered was the reaction. did he have something to hide? or was his poise simply that: a performance refined over years, polished until even discomfort gleamed like calm?

ravi didn’t bristle. he didn’t laugh, either. he simply watched her—chin tilted ever so slightly, eyes warm, patient, amused in the way a man is when a storm meets him at the door and he decides to let it in.

“i see,” he said softly, as though she hadn’t just dressed him down in a tone that could curdle milk. “then it’s a good thing you came early. gives me time to make a proper greeting.”

he let his hand fall without frustration, merely folding it behind his back with the other, as if to say: very well, try again later. his smile, however, remained—slanted, thoughtful, a touch brighter than it had been moments ago. the flutter of her lehenga had caught the sun through the archway and thrown a kaleidoscope across the tiles. and here she was, unimpressed and luminous. of course she hadn’t taken his hand.

his gaze flicked toward the archway again. “bring the gold kurta,” he called, voice smoother now, low and even. “and sandals. not the ones with the jade buckles, plain leather.”

in mere moments, the servants appeared. one draped the fine gold kurta over his shoulders, a rich silk that caught the candlelight with a quiet shimmer, while the other knelt to slide soft leather sandals onto his feet. their movements were practiced, reverent. ravi stood still for it all, gaze still on her, unbothered by the ritual, as if it were no more personal than donning armor before a battle he didn’t intend to lose.

when they finished, he gave a single nod. they bowed low, and without a word more, slipped from the room, the sound of their departure hushed like a turning page.

he rolled one shoulder, adjusting the fall of the fabric. “acceptable?” he asked, not without a flicker of mischief. the gold brought warmth to his skin, the embroidery subtle but deliberate, fit for a prince, yes, but also for her.

“now, i’m ready,” he said with a soft chuckle, his tone a touch lighter. ravi stood still, watching ruqaiyah as she considered him, her posture still as a marble statue. the silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of her coolness, and ravi’s expression softened into something quieter, more genuine.

dark gaze drifted over to the small sundial perched in the corner of the room. the shadow had shifted just enough to catch his attention, and for the briefest moment, he studied it, the subtle arc of time catching his eye. his expression shifted into a quiet amusement as he realized the truth.

"well, it seems i was on time after all," he said, glancing back at her with a playful glint in his eyes. "it’s exactly the time we agreed to meet, you know." he gestured to the sundial with a soft chuckle. “i suppose i’m not as tardy and unprepared as i made myself out to be.”

he cleared his throat, his smile warm, a little teasing. “i didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, his voice low but light. “i suppose i’ve gotten a little used to this,” he gestured to the room around them, and the pipe still resting on a nearby table, “.would you prefer i not smoke at all tonight? i never imagined it would bother you.”

he motioned toward the doorway that led into the next room, where the meal would be set. “as for the meal.” he continued, “spiced lamb, roasted vegetables, honeyed dates... all served with a wine from the hills of dorne. i think you’ll find it quite delightful.” his eyes met hers, “though, if you had something else in mind, i would have been happy to prepare whatever you preferred.”

★

ruqaiyah raised a single brow at the audacity of it—calling out to her from the other room like she were some girl summoned from the kitchens, like her heels hadn’t just sung her arrival down the corridor with the clarity of temple bells. she stood perfectly still for a moment longer, letting silence stretch in reply to his voice, her lip twitching with disbelief. you’re early, he’d said. which means i’m technically on time. technically, he was technically a nuisance. he had not come to greet her. not risen, not bowed, not offered even the pretence of preparation. and worse—he dared to mimic her.

and there he was: barefoot, lounging, still in loose garments like he had just woken from a nap rather than risen to receive her. "excuse me, put some shoes on. i hate feet."

if he had been anyone else—anyone less—she would have turned on her heel without so much as a word and left nothing but the memory of her scent clinging to the doorframe. but no. he was ravi. prince ravi. and unfortunately for him, that just saved him. when he called it war paint, ruqaiyah blinked. slowly. deliberately. her head tilted ever so slightly, lips pursed in disbelief as though she hadn’t just spent two hours ensuring every element of her appearance looked effortless. war paint?

“war paint,” she repeated, tone dry as sunstone. “it’s called gloss, actually,” she corrected, setting her small jewelled clutch down with a loud thunk on the nearest marble surface. the sound echoed, sharp and petulant. “hydration, you may have heard of it if you were not here smoking all day.”

she didn’t take his offered hand. not yet. let him stand there a moment longer, reaching—just to remember she was not his to summon like some courtier in need of favour. instead, she let her gaze travel the room as though assessing its worthiness. she was bored, she decided. utterly unimpressed. and she would act as such, even if the flutter in her chest betrayed something more viciously alive.

“i feel you’ve made no effort,” she observed plainly, gesturing vaguely to his tunic with the sweep of her eyes. “unless the brief was ‘freshly roused from a sand nap.’” she turned, just slightly, so the back of her lehenga swished and caught the light again. “do you greet all women like this, or only the ones you’re legally promised to?” she finally moved toward him, slow and disdainful as a cat, stopping just before his hand but not taking it. instead, she raised one perfectly threaded brow again and asked, “what is for dinner? or is that also arriving late, princely style?” she clicked her tongue softly, folding her arms.

ravi heard her before he saw her.

the soft chime of jewelry, the crisp tap of her heels, the imperial hush that followed her into a room. ruqaiyah. he didn't look up from the open book in his lap, not yet. there was a certain joy in letting her simmer, the kind only an eldest daughter of house dayne could manifest with a lift of her brow and the faintest curl of her lip. she expected the world to keep time with her, and so, he made it a point now and then to remind her that he was not the world, he was the sun, too, and suns did not rise early for anyone.

he shifted in his seat, lounging not in the dining room, where a table had, admittedly, only just begun to be set, but in the adjoining room, low on cushions, barefoot, still in a half-loose tunic the color of smoked amber. incense curled lazily toward the ceiling, and a small tray of pomegranate seeds and sugared dates sat beside him, untouched. the air smelled of sandalwood, citrus peel, and something sharper: expectation.

"you’re early," he called out, his voice warm, bemused, and deliberately languid. "which means i’m technically on time."

he rose slowly, with the kind of unhurried grace only a man absolutely certain of himself could wield. he did not come into view immediately, just allowed his voice to roll through the solar like the wind curling through desert canyons.

"tell the prince i am here," he mimicked softly to himself with a grin, crossing into the room at last. and then, louder: "consider him told."

ravi’s gaze swept over her, thoughtful, appreciative, just a little amused, like he was deciphering the difference between invitation and challenge. she was a vision in pink, yes, but also a storm wrapped in silk and fire, and gods, hadn’t he always known she’d arrive like this? not just beautiful, but inevitable.

“you wore war paint for dinner,” he said, mouth tilting into a lazy smile. “should i be flattered… or concerned?”

his bare feet padded over the cool tiles, and he stopped just short of her, not too close, but close enough for her perfume to make him want to forget every plan he'd half-laid for the evening.

then, with the offhanded authority of a prince too used to being obeyed, he glanced toward the archway where two servants lingered at a distance, still, watching. “leave us,” he said quietly.

a bow, a shuffle of sandals on stone, and they were alone.

his voice softened as he turned back to her, now entirely hers. “come,” he offered, reaching a hand out in invitation, fingers adorned in rings, palm open and warm. “they're setting the table, but we can talk here until everything is prepared for us."

who: @raviofthesun when and where: the royal apartments of prince ravi martell context: following her little temper tantrum, ravi followed through with the promise of a dinner.

she arrived precisely ten minutes early - expecting everything to be set up and perfect, as no man in his right mind would leave anything of this nature so last minute. she did not knock. ruqaiyah had never once announced herself like a servant waiting to be received, and she would not start now, least of all at the threshold of the private martell apartments, where history had already decided she was to one day belong. and she very much agreed with that rhetoric.

and so, the guards glanced at her, but none dared question her entrance; what could they say, with the sun itself stitched into her lehenga and a gaze that did not ask for permission?

the corridors glowed amber beneath the sconces, but they paled against the pink heat of her attire, the silk whispering against her skin with every step, embroidered thread catching the candlelight in glimmers of gold. each anklet, each bracelet, each chain at her waist and glittering around her neck added to the crescendo of her presence—she moved, and the world jingled in acknowledgment. her heels clacked unapologetically, arrogant and sharp, the kind of sound meant to precede news.

ruqaiyah could see herself walking these halls everyday. telling the governess to tell the children to be quiet. making the servants display her outfits lined up.

she had worn pink—not rose, not blush, not any dusty rose, but pink—hot and commanding, like the inside of a pomegranate freshly torn. it clung to her waist, her sleeves sheer and beaded, the skirts full enough to swallow entire population of smallfolk girls whole. her lips were glassy, unapologetically reflective, and her long hair—every strand straightened to a blade—cascaded down her back like a curtain of ink.

she stood now in the outer solar, though no servants were in sight. fine. let him find her here, composed, statuesque. she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve and let her gaze drift to the arches and pillars carved with sandstone vines. the martell taste for excess was more subdued than dornish fire might suggest—peach marble and muted earth tones. it made her seem even louder by comparison, a gem mistakenly placed in a bowl of stonefruit. "so this is it," she murmured aloud to herself, fingers trailing lightly along the edge of a table carved with sun motifs. "the belly of the beast."

she had imagined it before, of course. had imagined countless evenings where he would finally remember the promises laid out for them before they could even speak in full sentences. imagined him, not as he was—cool and absent and impossible—but as he might become, if only he would stop stalling. "tell the prince i am here." she did even bother to introduce herself - in what world would she need to? the most beautiful in dorne, on the continent; the sister of the sword of the morning, and the oldest lady of house dayne.

"for our private dinner." she did not want them stood inside.